


learning to let go

by wartransmission



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation Kink, M/M, non-sburb AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wartransmission/pseuds/wartransmission
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In answer to this quote prompt on HSWC:</p><p>"God gave man a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to use them both at the same time." <br/>-Robin Williams</p><p>---</p><p>It’s almost as if the concept of giving up control is a bane of his very existence, and while you’re certain that he doesn’t mean it in such a way, it comes off as though he doesn’t believe that you can lead the way, even in this kind of intimacy.</p><p>It hurts, just a tad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	learning to let go

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: When Dirk becomes inarticulate, then his brain obviously isn't functioning properly. Hence this fic, in response to the prompt.

99% of the time, Dirk tops. For half of that, you  _literally_  top, but somehow, someway, Dirk tops anyway. Oh sure, it’s your dick up his bumhole if he ever lets you have at it, but more often than not he still manages to have his way with you with his goshdarned control and words and it’s  _frustrating_. It’s almost as if the concept of giving up control is a bane of his very existence, and while you’re certain that he doesn’t mean it in such a way, it comes off as though he doesn’t believe that you can lead the way, even in this kind of intimacy.  
  
It hurts, just a tad. But anger is your usual reaction at the realization of it, mostly because it’s easier to express irritation than anything else.  
  
Surprisingly, for once, anger helps. When you’ve scuffled your way onto the bed and Dirk’s sides and arms are bruised with punches and the marks of your fingers (which is inexplicably arousing, for some reason), he stops. He just lies down, lax underneath you, looking like he’s taking in your appearance. You rub at your mouth just to be sure, an odd flush warming your cheeks when you realize there’s drool at the corner of your lips.  
  
But Dirk’s not staring at that.  
  
“You’re angry,” Dirk says, a hand reaching up to rub away the creases on your forehead. You start at the unusually gentle touch, staring at him like he’s grown a few antlers when he blinks up at you. “What happened?”  
  
“I’m not- it’s not-  _stop that_.” You snarl, voice low in your throat when Dirk makes to flip you over again. You pin his wrists to the bed, subconsciously hoping he doesn’t mind the spit still on your other hand, making sure to properly straddle his hips so his bony edges aren’t poking at your arse. The words pour out of you like water from a broken dam, and you say,“I’m frigging tired of you always getting the upper hand, alright? And no, it’s not- it’s not the fisticuffs. It’s  _everything_.” You suck in a breath, your head bowed as you slowly let out an exhale in a space of two seconds. “Damn it, Dirk.”  
  
Dirk frowns. You add, because it’s pissing you off how he always has the last word, “You don’t have to take control every time. You need to trust me. I’m your best bro, I’m your  _boyfriend_  for frig’s sake, and it’s always as if you’re- you’re  _afraid_  to let go.”  
  
When Dirk tenses up, your own frown softens.  
  
That answers a lot of your questions.  
  
“Dirk.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says, blinking twice, blinking again, before adding, “I didn’t mean to be a control freak-”  
  
“That’s not what I meant!” You unintentionally yell, and he flinches. Fuck. You forgot how he hates that. “Dirk, I’m sorry. But- I just- I want you to ease off a bit. I want you to trust me to take care of you.”  
  
You think automatically that he’ll argue. He’ll say that he trusts you and he doesn’t understand what you mean because he’s cryptic in that way, he’ll blame himself for something else completely irrelevant to the situation because that’s how he works and you’re used to it, so used to it that you feel like this sort of relationship won’t even work when he’s always dominating everything-  
  
but he doesn’t say anything against you. He’s just...silent, contemplating, amber eyes clouded over with thoughts as he slowly relaxes under you.  
  
Eventually, he nods, because god forbid Dirk Strider ever be predictable.  
  
“Thank god,” you say with a huff of breath, too tired to argue or doubt him. “I was thinking we were going to play charades with this sort of thing forever.”  
  
“Evidently not,” he says, smirking with one eyebrow raised. “I’m tired of fighting with you. The scuffles are fine,” he adds the last statement quickly before you can raise another question. “But yes, I’m tired of having to dance around this sort of thing. I’m,” he trails off, looking away before looking back up at you, his fingers twitching under your hold, “sorry, for everything. I didn’t mean to push you.”  
  
“It’s fine,” you say, smiling at him, “you didn’t mean to. I’m just glad we got the chance to talk about it.”  
  
“We wouldn’t have had the chance if I didn’t notice you being so angry,” he retorts, wrists wiggling against your grip. “Does taking care of me involve holding me down, Jake?”  
  
Your mind blanks at the question, until you look up and notice his wrists still in your grip. “Um.” You squeeze your hands tighter around his wrists, earning a light moan from Dirk for you efforts. “No, not really. But I do think it’s better this way.” You grin. “Don’t you?”  
  
“I’ve yet to make a decision,” he drawls, something like a smile on his lips when he rolls his hips up against you. You shiver, just slightly. “But, hmm. It feels nice.”  
  
“Tell me what you want,” you say. Dirk blinks at the words, like they’re so much of a novelty- and they  _are_ , because you’ve never really asked, until now. You’d always assumed that he knew what he wanted because he always took the lead. But he’s only ever been giving you what you want, all this time.  
  
Well, fuck. You obviously have a lot of your own shortcomings.  
  
“Anything it is, tell me,” you say, thumbs stroking at his palms. “I won’t judge you.”  
  
For the first time in a long time, he stutters. He honest to god stutters. (It’s an appealing look on him.) “I- uh. Mm.” He frowns, looking frustrated at his inarticulation, until he shifts to tug your hand away from his wrist and splays your fingers over his neck.  
  
Your brain short-circuits at the implication. You instinctively grip his neck when he lowers your hand further, and you think you might be wrong with your assumption, but Dirk moans. You squeeze for good measure, thumb on one of his jugulars, and his eyes fall shut.  
  
 _Jesus kringlefucking christmas._  
  
You didn’t think that being trusted this much would feel so good. The feeling you get when Dirk bares his neck to you settles hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach, making a home in your loins until you feel yourself tightening your grip around his neck because you want to hear more.  
  
He moans accordingly. He moans even more when you force his head back with your other hand on his eyes, moans louder when you start to roll your hips right into his with your arse sitting right atop his hard-on.  
  
It’s quiet (which is unusual enough by itself), barring the sounds of your clothes being ruffled against his and Dirk’s little gasps and groans. You usually dislike keeping your clothes on when you’re getting yourself off, mostly because you’ve had it with being dirty in them from your adventures, but Dirk sees it as even more of a turn on and-  _god_. If he always moans like this under you, if he’s always this quiet just from some rough handling, you might not mind anymore. Or ever.  
  
When Dirk moans and arches into you, his whole body taut like a bow, you know that it’s over. You take in the sight of him, hair mussed up and face looking blissed out, his fingers curled into the sheets and his body shuddering from the aftermath of his orgasm, his adam’s apple bobbing against your palm- looking absolutely debauched and wrecked and  _yours_ , and you think, “ _I did that_ ,” which is more than enough to send you over the edge.  
  
The silence doesn’t last long once it’s over, if only because you can’t help from feeling high post-coitus. Dirk groans weakly when you slide your hand away from his neck, and you grin. You say, “If I’d known that kinky coital practices would be the thing to keep you from talking, we’d be doing this  _years_ ago.” (You refrain from telling him that his body tends to be more expressive when he can't talk, because you really don't want to ruin the chances you still have at seeing him in such a way.)  
  
Dirk grunts in turn, his punch light on your stomach as he shoves you off of him.   
  
You think you’ll take that as a victory.


End file.
